Mohana Zarei was a first-grade student.
She was still so small that she had not yet fully learned the letters of her own name, so that she could write it herself and celebrate knowing it.
Her father says:
“I have another daughter too, younger than Mohana. During the war, I was in Minab. I went to school to pick up my child, but when I arrived, I saw that the missile had struck. I could see the bodies of the children.
At seven in the evening, they called and said Mohana had been identified by her school bag. Because of the explosion, Mohana’s face was not recognizable. I identified her by her hand and the marks on it.”
The night before her martyrdom, Mohana had said to her father, “Daddy, can we go to the park together?”
They went, and she played a lot. When they returned home, she suddenly remembered that she had not written the dictation for the next day. With her sweet childlike voice, she said, “Daddy, can you dictate tonight’s words to me?”
That night, her father dictated Mohana’s homework to her. He still remembers the words she wrote slowly, sounding them out as she formed them.
Mohana loved drawing. Whenever she became bored, she would draw. Her whole room, the cupboards, and the walls were filled with colorful drawings. The last picture she had drawn was a childlike drawing of her mother, and she proudly showed it to everyone with joy.
She always said she wanted to become a doctor when she grew up. She was also interested in sewing, because her mother was sewing at home. She would say, “I wish I knew how to sew too.”
These days, Mohana’s mother’s only comfort is looking at her daughter’s photos and videos. They can no longer bear staying at home. From the pain of missing her, and from the longing for Mohana’s playing and running through the house, they take refuge in the martyrs’ cemetery.
There, they find a little peace.